


Paul "Bunny" McCartney, Secret Subversive

by waveofahand



Category: McLennon - Fandom, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: A World Without Love, Denial, Gay themes in songwriting, M/M, No one ever heard of bi-sexuals back then?, One Shot, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sex Talk, What made Paul write this at age 16?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 14:41:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20798291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waveofahand/pseuds/waveofahand
Summary: John Lennon and Paul McCartney have begun to explore the physical side of their feelings for each other, and understanding the risks involved inspires Paul to write a surprising song.  Everything is fiction; I don't own the Beatles.





	Paul "Bunny" McCartney, Secret Subversive

**Author's Note:**

> After discovering (via Wikipedia) that Paul McCartney wrote "A World Without Love" at age 16, I couldn't help imagining what had inspired him...

**Liverpool, Winter, 1959**

“I have a new song,” Paul told John. He bit his lip, unsure he should have mentioned it.

“Oh, yeah? Well, play it. Let’s have it, then.” John said.

They were in the kitchen at 20 Forthlin Road, scrounging around for biscuits to round out the tea they were making for themselves. It was a cold, wet day and both of them had gotten a chill as they raced to Paul’s house, ditching school once again to spend the day together.

“After tea,” Paul decided. “M’fingers are too stiff to play.”

“Well, you know, lad, sometimes playin’ with stiff things ain’t so bad.” John teased. “And aw, look, I’ve made you blush again.”

“Shurrup,” Paul said, his cheeks running all the way into scarlet as John set two steaming cups on the table and leaned Paul's way, managing to plant a small kiss right on his full lips before Macca ducked his head, although he did smile.

They munched on the slightly stale plain biscuits that usually only appealed to Paul’s father Jim, but would do in a pinch. The McCartney kitchen was generally in short supply of everything but eggs, tea and the bottle of whiskey kept handy on the shelf.

“These ain’t bad if you dunk ‘em,” John said, devouring another.

Paul wrinkled his nose. The idea of dipping anything into his tea and leaving crumbs behind offended his fastidious nature. Perhaps it was his mother’s influence, but in Paul’s mind, tea was for sipping and biscuit crumbs were for sweeping and never the twain should meet.

“So, what’s it about?” John asked, continuing to muck up his own drink.

Paul played dumb. “What?” He was regretting mentioning the song at all. It wasn’t ready to show, maybe. Or maybe John really wouldn’t like it.

John raised one eyebrow at him and spoke slowly. "You know, the song? You said you had a song, Macca, keep up!"

“Oh, it's nuthin'. Kind of a love song.”

“'In spite of all the _danaannnn-juh!_'” John sang out in a nasally rock-a-billy twange.

Paul chuckled despite his nerves. “No, not like that.”

“What, then? Is it about someone you fancy? Val or that Layla? Got some lyrics you want me to look at?” John narrowed his eyes. “Did you try to rhyme ‘rosy’ with ‘blow me’ again?”

They both laughed out loud. “Come on,” John pestered. “What’s about?”

Shrugging as he spooned more sugar into his tea, Paul tried to seem casual. “You remember what we talked about the other night? After…”

John lit a ciggie and sipped at his tea, giving Paul a knowing look as he smiled and his color rose. “Did we _talk_, the other night? I don’t remember talking.”

“We did, though,” Paul said, his blush matching John’s. “After.”

His partner mugged at him and tried out a voice rather like his Aunt Mimi’s. “After what, dearie, speak up. Use your words.”

“You know,” Paul said. “_After_.”

“After we practiced _Little Sweet 16_?”

“N-no, after that.”

“After yer Dad told us to quiet down or call it a night?”

“No, John. _After_.”

“After we quieted down, you mean?”

Paul finished his tea in a single gulp. “After…”

John gave him a wicked smile. “After you sat on my lap?”

“Oh, gawd,” Paul groaned. “Don’t go there, just now.”

“Oh, _gawd_,” John mimicked him. “I think we should. We should go there _right_ now.” He patted his thighs. "Plop yerself down again, lad."

Paul shook his head, truly sorry he’d mentioned anything about the song, even as John – no surprise – quickly got distracted and dove into the spirit of this next thing. “Come on, Macca, love, gimmee some of that sugar you’ve been sippin’. I bet them plummy lips taste sweet.”

“If I do that, we’ll get no work done today, Johnny.”

“Alright by me, doll. Every free minute doesn’t have to be spent working, now, does it?”

“It _does_ if we’re serious.”

“Aw, come on, Macca.” John repeated. Rather than plead, he stood up. “Alright, then! If Macca won’t come to the mountain, the mountain is coming to Macca.” Before Paul could say another word, John was in his lap, straddling him. “Gimme, Paulie. Just a little kiss, yeah? Aw, look at you duckin’ your head and smilin’ like a little tease. You can’t resist, can you? A _couple_ of little kisses, then?

Paul couldn’t deny the smile. In truth, he could rarely deny John anything. Hell, he could barely remember his own name, sometimes, when John started flirting with him. And at the moment he liked the feel of his best mate -- _boyfriend? Should I use that word?_ – sitting in his lap. “Just one kiss,” he agreed, trying to rein John in.

“Several kisses, Macca!”

“_Two_.”

John gave an annoyed groan as he took Paul’s face between his hands and pressed a mild, chaste one upon his partner’s lips. “That’s just a warm up, yeah?”

“Alright,” Paul murmured, his hands going around John’s waist.

They kissed again, lips parting, their tongues just skimming against each other before Paul, unable to resist, opened a bit wider, licking John’s lower lip and then biting it.

They both moaned. “You’re so bitey, Macca,” John breathed.

“_One. _That's _one_!” Paul counted, hoping to keep the lid down on where this could so easily go. He was already squirming in his seat and was warning himself not to go for John's neck. Not too difficult, actually, since John had immediately reclaimed his mouth and was attempting to swallow him whole.

There was a problem with the hands, though, Paul noticed. John seemed to have a dozen of them. One was rubbing a thumb over his nipple, through his shirt, and the other was pulling lightly at Paul’s hair, stroking and then tugging at it, which made the younger boy shiver. He found he loved it.

Paul’s own hands, meanwhile had somehow lowered themselves to Lennon’s arse, seeking out contact, heat against heat. “Jesus, John,” he groaned. “That’s two. Two. Let’s stop.”

John pulled back. He was already panting, his breath hot on Paul’s face. “Several!” He insisted. “We said _several!”_

“We said _two_.”

They dived back into another kiss, and it seemed like it was about to become a hopeless case.

That’s how it had begun the other night, too. Paul smiling his way into John's lap. John not really resisting. And then a few shy nips at each other, and then a tongue nuzzled against a neck, and an impatient, randy Paul scooting his pelvis as close to John’s as he could manage, and before they knew it – before anyone would have guessed – Jim McCartney had his wish. The boys had quieted down so quickly, had become so profoundly careful about making a sound (not a moan, not a squeak of a bedspring was permitted, so they moved it to the floor) that a smarter parent would have become suspicious.

But Paul’s father had been enjoying a program on the wireless, and had no reason to be anything but pleased that his mostly-obedient son had been so compliant.

Upstairs, John Lennon had been pleased about compliance, too, and so had his Macca, as they had their first experience of each other as something more than blokes and bandmates – a dry and messy experience that left both of them feeling uncomfortable in their clothes but also thrilled, and sated, and happy to linger in each other’s arms, (quite comfortably, indeed), just talking and kissing, until it was time for John to leave.

_That_ was when they had talked.

About _that_.

And the way things were going, they were about to replay that entire performance in the humble McCartney kitchen on this chilly afternoon. “Paul,” John was choking out the words, barely able to breath as he felt his partner move against him mindlessly. “Let’s go to your room, yeah? Now, _please?_ ‘M afraid we’re gonna break the chair, and have to explain it.”

Paul answered by trying to drown John within another deep kiss, and then – without another word -- grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the stairs.

“Christ, John,” Paul complained not very many minutes later, as he caught his breath. “I’m a mess. Again.”

“Aye, you and me both,” came a languid voice beneath him.

“Might’ve been better if we’d, you know…taken each other out.”

“Next time, love,” John said. “A mutual wank sounds brilliant, but there was no stopping --”

“I know.”

“I just wanted to keep going.”

“Me too…”

“Why does that feel so good? It’s not like that with a bird, the dry humping – is it because it’s all just so…hot and hard, and packed?”

“I don’t know, Johnny,” Paul sighed. “It gets me crazy, though. I like it. And’ you reachin’ around, grabbing at me, pressin’ me down, while I moved…”

John reached up, bringing Paul’s face to his for another kiss.

“Macca, you know…you’re kind of a feckin’ animal once we connect.”

“I know.”

“You bit me neck, bit me collarbone. I thought you were gonna bite me face.”

“I know, sorry.” Paul didn’t sound sorry as he playfully nipped at John’s cheek. “I was a biter when I was a kid, too.”

“You’re like a little ferret, rompin' fast all over me, and biting.”

“’M not a ferret,” Paul objected, making a face. “They’re weasels. I ain’t a weasel.”

“Nay, with them teeth and that adorable wrinkle you give on your nose, you’re more of a guinea pig, aren’t ya? Or, no, not a guinea pig… a bunny. You’re like a wild bunny lookin’ to rut.”

Paul rolled over, fitting himself between John’s legs again, his nose wrinkling all unconsciously as he felt his sullied drawers. “I like it here.”

“Cradled between my legs, y’mean?” John squeezed him gently with his jeans-covered thighs.

“Mmm…”

“I like it too, love. Wish we could stay like this.”

“Mmm,” Paul repeated, “Until they came to put us away for, what is it? _Deviance_?”

“Aye, that and debauchery. We’re both debauched, lad.”

“Yeah, that.” He leveled his gaze, showing his wide dark eyes to John. “That’s what we talked about last week. After…”

“After we’d done this, you mean?”

“Yeah. That’s what my song is about.”

“What song, now?”

“Good Lord, John, did you spurt out your brain cells, too? The song I told you about, downstairs.”

Lennon came up on his elbows, forcing Paul to his side. “What, you wrote a song about this? Us doin’ _this_? Are you fucking mad, Macca?”

Paul gave him a look. “What do you think, John, I’m that stupid? It’s not about us. Not, you know, about…this!” He made a wavelike gesture over the two of them. “It’s about, what we're talkin' about. Deviance, and debauchery.”

“Ah, God, you’ve written a sex song!” John laughed, scratching his head as he stood up. “What’ve ye done, Macca? Besides rhyming ‘debauchery’ with ‘archery’, that is? I need a pee and a wipe-down. And then you need to play me this song.”

He left the room, muttering about having a lunatic in the band, and Paul got up too, keen to change his drawers. By the time John had returned, Paul – hair combed and himself feeling much tidier in every way -- was sitting placidly on his bed, guitar in his lap, waiting to face his partner.

John came back squinting as he looked around Paul’s room. “So, where’s the sheet then? Or where’s yer notebook?”

“No notebook,” Paul said. “Never wrote it down, did I?”

“Well…” John stammered. “Where’s the chords, the chart, don’t you have something for me to look at?”

“Naw, I figured it was safer in my head, you know? After what we'd talked about? I just felt like I should just...not write it all down.”

John sat beside him on the bed, crossing his legs and trying to remember what part of their conversation Paul might mean. It had all seemed very general and barely interesting, to John.

“Alright, then, Paul, come along,” he said. “I’ve no idea where you’re leading, so dazzle me, son.”

After torturing his bottom lip with a solid, if unconscious, bite, Paul began picking out a rather bouncy intro. _“Please, lock me away…”_

He heard John bark out a laugh and stopped. “_What?_ It’s five notes!”

“It’s mad, son!” John chortled. “You’ve got this lively intro -- sounds like you’re going skipping through the park, you are, with balloons in your hand and ice cream on your face -- and then this melodrama! “_Please! Lock me away!_ Macca, You can’t write a sunny tune and then sing about wanting to slit your wrists!”

“Oh, aye, you’re the expert songsmith now. I have an ass for a partner,” Paul said glumly. “Do you really have no memory, then?”

“Remember _what_?"

“You don’t remember how…last time…we talked about, you know, how, well, you know…”

“Argh!” Lennon covered his face with his hands. “Just _say the words_, Paul! Last time when we Shagged. Each. Other. Like we just did…we talked about--”

Paul saw the moment when the penny finally dropped. “_Ohhhh_,” John finally got it. He uncovered his face and looked at him. “We were talkin’ about Oscar Wilde going to prison for --”

“Deviance and debauchery,” Paul said.

“Well, really, ‘Gross Indecency’ if we’re being technical…”

“Aye, whatever, and you said –”

“I said, it was 'grossly indecent' for a government to dictate what we could do with our joytoys, and with whom, when they couldn’t even keep the roads paved.”

“I left out the ‘joytoys’ bit, love, clever as it was. And the bit about infrastructure,” Paul batted his eyelashes at him. “Could only rhyme that with juncture, and that seemed too sexual, to me. I mean, coming right after… you know.”

“_Sex_, Macca! Sex! Rutting, mindless, clothes-on, rabbit sex. You can say it!”

“Anyway…” Paul ignored John's raised voice and went into a twelve-bar blues run, “You said ‘If the government says it’s between no lovin’ on the joytoy or jailtime’ --”

“_Please, lock me away_ –” John recalled in unison with Paul, as they both laughed.

“Well, alright then! You’ve written a protest song! Is it satirical? If it is, you really should use ‘joytoy’ after all!”

“I will not!” Paul was emphatic. “It’s not satire, John, it’s more serious than that.”

“Alright, alright,” John made a conciliating gesture. “No need to get yer nuts in a twist, Paulie. Let’s hear it, then, yeah?”

Paul pressed his lips into a thin line, still looking adorably annoyed, but he nodded and again played the intro. Then he stopped.

“It’s just that… I thought a lot about what you said, Johnny,” The young man’s voice was soft and serious. “And…and…you know, what's a bloke to do? I mean, I was thinkin’ about the queer lads we see by the piers, and the ones we know at school. They’re different, aye. But I mean…everyone wants to be loved, yeah? You know…me Da’s older. Mum was, too. Okay, they were married, and all, and everything’s allowed in marriage.” He frowned, unsure about that. “I think so, anyway. But then I thought…what if they’d never met each other? If nobody’s supposed to have sex until they’re married, then what do people who never get married do – or people who can’t get married, because they’re queer? Just ‘do without’? Seems wrong, to me, for the law to trap people like that.”

John smiled warmly at Paul and scooted over to and then behind him, straddling his partner’s hips and wrapping arms around his waist. He couldn’t have put into words what he was feeling at that precise instant but he knew he’d been moved by Paul's, and somehow calmed, too. As though Paul’s words had touched and reassured something deep within him, if only by affirming his own thoughts.

“I think you’re very right, Macca,” he said softly, resting his chin on Paul’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”

“Proud?” Paul looked confused. “It’s just common sense, aye?”

“Not everyone has such sense, love. So, yeah. Proud.”

“But…” Paul pressed his head against John’s, looking down at his fingertips, grazing the strings. “What fuckin’ sense does anything in life make if your choices are to pretend to be someone you’re not, or go your whole life without bein’ loved by somebody? Or even just to have some kind of human connection, you know? Why should anyone have to worry about bein’ thrown in jail because of who they love?”

John couldn’t answer, didn’t trust his own voice at the moment. With a sigh, he kissed Paul’s shoulder and resettled against him, his arms tightening into a hug.

“Sing me your song, Paulie,” John finally managed, nearly whispering. “No more jokes from me, I promise.”

He heard Paul mutter something indecipherable under his breath – he gathered it was either a prayer or some filthy sarcasm in Latin, because RC’s did that sort of thing -- and then Paul began the song again, picking up from the intro.

_Please lock me away_   
_And don't allow the day_   
_ Here inside where I hide_   
_ With my loneliness_

_I don't care what they say I won't stay  
In a world without love_

John’s eyebrows were up. Macca’s were down as he concentrated on what was the biggest, most sophisticated song of his young life. _Sixteen, _John thought_. Fuckin’ idiot social prodigy_.

_Birds sing out of tune_   
_ And rain clouds hide the moon_   
_ I'm OK, here I'll stay_   
_ With my loneliness_

_I don't care what they say I won't stay_   
_ In a world without love_

The music stopped. “Oy, John, love. You alright?”

John needed a moment to pull himself out of his own head. “Aye, Macca, keep singing.” He said rather too-brightly. “It’s good.”

“Only, you’re squeezing me, you know. Can’t get my breath.”

“Oh, blimey, I’m sorry, Macca,” John chuckled but it sounded a little strained. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d begun to cling to Paul, so he backed off on his hold, but not before giving him a quick squeeze meant to be affectionate, but feeling like something more. He gulped. “Do _you_ feel that way, sometimes?”

“What way?”

“You know…lonely. Like you’re different than everyone else, and alone and all?”

Paul considered for a minute. “Well, yeah,” he said softly, looking John’s way. “I _am_ different, though. You and I both are, Johnny.”

“We’re not queer,” John said quickly, lifting his head and further loosening his grip on Paul.

“That’s not what I meant,” Paul frowned. “We’re both just… different from the rest. Some of it’s that we’ve both lost our mums, yeah, but…we just think differently than most everyone – we _dream_ differently. Like, you go to art school, but you’re not standard-issue, yeah? You’re still not colorin’ in the lines. And I can get good marks if I want to I can’t be arsed, because I just wanna play, you know? And we both know we’re gettin' out of Liverpool, that we’re gonna be real musicians, and we’re gonna be great. You know it and I know it, right?”

“Aye…” John wondered at him.

“The rest of them…they’re all good lads and girls, aye? But they don’t think like that. They just figure to get jobs, get married, enjoy the pub of an evening. And that's not bad, really, but it’s not what I want, Johnny. And it’s not what you want, either. And we’re not gonna be that either, can’t you feel it? I can! I can feel it.”

“I can feel it too, Macca, I can.” _Ever since the day we met_, John left the words unsaid. 

Paul was staring at John, his dark eyes somehow full of brilliant, luminous intensity. “Aye, we both can. It’s like…the day we met, I could feel it --”

“I know --” _God bless Macca for just sayin’ it._

“So, we are _different_. No one else gets us, and so yeah, we’re like the birds out of tune, or the clouds hidin’ the moon. It’s the same for us as it is for those blokes on the pier. And yeah, it gets lonely when the rest of the world doesn’t understand. But I don’t mind it.” He swallowed and cleared his throat, looking away, and then focused on his strings. “I don’t mind it, Johnny. Now, here’s the middle eight.”

_So I wait and in a while_   
_I will see my true love's smile_   
_ She may come, I know not when_   
_ When she does I lose_   
_ So baby until then_

_Lock me away_   
_And don't allow the day_   
_ Here inside where I hide_   
_ With my loneliness_

_I don't care what they say I won't stay  
In a world without love_

He’d repeated the last phrase, drawing it out in a retard and then strumming one last chord, letting it resonate away, and now Paul looked at John, trying to keep his expectations low. He knew his partner’s praise didn’t come cheap.

All that met him was silence. John was looking back at him, brows lowered, as though he’d never seen Paul McCartney before.

“You hate it.” Paul guessed, looking deflated.

“What, no!” John shook himself out of his own head. “No, I didn’t hate it at all, Paul. Not at all.”

“But you don’t like it.”

“I do like it,” John insisted, sounding uncertain.

“I can hear a ‘but’,” Paul said. "What's troubling you about it?"

“I dunno, I dunno.” John lifted himself off the bed and began to pace around the room. “It is a good song, love, I don’t want you to believe otherwise, because that would be wrong. I just…” He paused and looked at Paul, his eyes rounding at his own thought. “It’s just…I think I’m a little _afraid_ of it, Macca.”

Fear was the last reaction Paul would ever have expected from John, and he openly scoffed at him. “Afraid of it? What’s there to be afraid of in it? Said yourself the lyrics aren’t anything special.”

“No, but they are!” John said, his voice betraying a sense of wonder, and his expression all confused. “'Simple' doesn't mean pointless. But what do you mean at that, ‘when she comes I’ll lose’ part? Can’t say I quite got that.”

“When she _does, I_ lose,” Paul – whose inner English teacher was always to the fore -- corrected him.

He put his guitar on the floor, leaning it against his desk, as he sought the best way to explain what he himself knew was a difficult lyric, involving some rather convoluted, not exactly linear thinking.

“It’s like, when you live this way -- where you know you’re different, and you can’t ever be ‘not different’ -- after a while it’s just who you are, yeah? It’s like having a secret identity, like Superman. And when you’re a kid you wish someone else knew it about you – knew your secret identity. But then, after a while it just becomes a way of _being_, and it’s _your_ way of being, yeah? And you don’t really need, or even want anyone else to really know your way, anymore. I mean… I like it. I’ve come to _like_ not being fully known. It keeps me hungry, in a way, and I almost feel like I feed on it, and get strong on it. I may not like it _every_ day, but sometimes…sometimes I _love_ it, bein’ different. Even if it means being a little lonely. You know what I mean?”

“Can’t say as I do, Macca.” John was looking almost warily at Paul, who had risen from the bed, and was now circling the small room as he tried to explain himself.

“Well, you don’t want to be like everyone else, d’ya?” Paul asked outright, his voice raised and sounding unusually domineering. “Because yer _not_, Lennon. You know that.”

“N-no, I do know that. And I _don’t_ want to be ordinary,” John’s brow was deeply furrowed as he thought it through, still wondering where to plumb amid Paul’s depths. “But I hate being lonely, Paul.”

“Yeah, of course.” Paul stopped circling John, and stood before him looking directly into John’s warm, brown eyes. “An’ that’s why we end up looking for a mate. An’ it’s a lucky day when we find someone who gets us, and we don’t have to be lonely anymore.”

John held his gaze. He could feel Paul reach out, touching his wrist gently, until John responded, giving him his own fingertips. “Do you get me, yet, Johnny?”

Lennon gulped. He wasn't really sure he did, but the idea of admitting that to his partner was unthinkable.

It didn’t matter. Paul read the confusion in him, and so he moved a step closer, and kept trying.

“You and I are always going to be different, just like the fellas on the pier. It might be a _different_ difference from theirs, but it’s different all the same. An’ someday we’ll meet birds we realize we can love enough to marry, even if they never really get us, the way we get each other. We’ll settle down and have kids, an’ that…that’ll be grand, aye? It’s a win! But we kind of lose, too, because we’ll have to give up that _way of being_, that kind of…almost willful difference – and the willingness to be a little bit lonely for the sake of it. We’ll _lose_ that. Maybe that’s why it’s called ‘settling down’. Because sometimes to get what you want, it means losing something of yourself, so you have to _settle_.”

“Is that what you mean? All in that one line, ‘when she comes, I lose?”

Paul’s lips betrayed a small smile. John still didn’t have the lyric right, but it didn’t matter. “I guess…if I had to put it more concisely, love, I’m sayin’ ‘_When it’s time to bow to conventionality, I will. But it will cost me something._’” He poked Lennon in the belly, breaking the tension between them.

“Concise is good, Macca. I like you when you’re concise.”

“Well, you know, they’re just lyrics. Had to fit the melody.”

“No, don’t say that, Paul. They may be just lyrics, but considering what inspired them, and what they really mean, they’re more than that. They’re…”

“They’re what?”

Lennon found he couldn’t filter himself. “Well, they’re kind of brave and crazy. You’ve written a protest song that sounds like a love song.” John smiled. “That’s why I’m proud of you. It’s downright subversive of you, Paulie, and no one ever would have thought Jim McCartney’s son would be a subversive!”

“Ha!” Paul chortled, “I guess that’s true.”

“You should put it in your notebook, with all the chords and all, so you don’t forget it. We might record it someday.”

“I won’t forget it,” Paul shot him a look. “But yeah, it’s a good idea.”

John was still shaking his head, and chuckling as he gathered Macca into his arms. “My bitey little bunny is a secret subversive. I _love_ that about him.”

“Even if the song scares you, Johnny? You still think you’ll want to record it?”

John held Paul by the shoulders and give him a direct gaze. “It scares the piss out of me, lad. But I doubt anyone else will ever understand it, so yes, I will.” With a fingertip, he traced Paul’s jawline, then kissed the slight cleft in his chin.

“It will harmonize brilliantly, Bunny,” he murmured as he moved in for a kiss, “just like us.


End file.
